


Lovers never say goodbye

by IDontGiveA



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25036570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDontGiveA/pseuds/IDontGiveA
Summary: Twenty-seven years too late, Richie remembers.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 2





	Lovers never say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: The Flamingos - Lovers never say goodbye   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZqPQvj5_wg

“Shit-“ Richie cursed under his breath, absently, while gnawing on a fingernail. Blown pupils going left to right in the lowlight of the slowly approaching dawn, blank expression, side-dished with bloodshot eyes, furrowed brows, and all. He sat there, lanky dad bod crouched in his bathtub, facing the salmon-tinted bathroom wall and stubbornly counting its tiles. It was supposed to serve as some sort of coping mechanism, a guy from group therapy had told him.

“Fuck, goddammit-" And each time he lost count, he’d have to start all over again, way up in the top left corner.

On some days, Richie would get ahold of his reality and chuckle dryly at the irony of it, because _who would’ve thought?_ – that Richie Tozier, of all people, the funny man, the ever so charming trashmouth; that his biggest joke would turn out to be his own life? That he’d be approaching his 60s alone in a tub, realizing that he had ultimately failed at life, and that all the opportunities he would’ve never had taken anyway were now extinguished for all eternity. No applause this time; no curtain call, no pointe. Just a comedian in early retirement, anxiously clinging to _what-if’s_ and _could’ve-been’s_ of his troubled youth.

Richie’s broad knees stuck out of the water awkwardly like misplaced candles on a birthday cake. He’s too big for things, has been since he turned 14. Too big for being cuddled and too lanky for affection, definitely too big for this stupid tub he’s been sitting in for hours now. The water was freezing, and he had to deliberately unclench one of his fists to press his crumpled index finger onto the play-button of the worn-down cassette player sitting next to him. And then, for the umpteenth time that day, familiar tunes were spilling out of it, filling every void with warmth, the unheated room and Richie’s chest alike.

_Please wait for me; for I shall return;_

_My love for you will forever burn_

And this. This is it.

A tad too fast and out of tune at times, and Richie couldn’t stop himself from listening. It hadn’t dawned on him yet that the noise bore significant semblance to Eddie’s speaking pattern, his mind high on memories long lost, heavily aching after it all, no matter how overwhelming it seemed back then. Richie couldn’t stop listening even if he wanted to, because everything he thought he’d left behind for good, it hit him right there and then, in front of his mind’s eye. As if he was dying and seeing his life roll by one last time, all the missed opportunities to be loud and proud about feelings, all the tainted dreams about candy red shorts and mid-calf socks. Oh, Richie couldn’t quit Eddie if his life depended on it, couldn’t erase him from his mind, not after 27 years, and certainly not after 50. The sudden nausea whenever their hands would touch on accident; the weak, hairless knees, the years of pining and unrequited somethings, images over images washing over Richie ruthlessly. The obnoxious bickering and Eddie’s grabby little hands all over him, the miniscule bits of spit landing on his glasses whenever Eddie had spoken with rage. All paired with his seeming obliviousness to _things_ , which had made it all the harder for Richie to speak.

As far as Richie could remember, the end of summer 1990 must’ve been the first time he’s heard the song. On a rainy Sunday just like this one, at the clubhouse, sharing the loose hammock with Eddie, who’d just climbed in like he owned the damn place. Richie must’ve made some snark comment, knowing it would make Eddie climb in all the more. The endless cat-and-mouse games were something they’d gotten quite good at over the years.

Ben must’ve forgotten his cassette player when he’d left with the others, and then it was just sitting there on the wooden floor, playing sappy old love songs on repeat.

Richie vaguely recalled one of his nostrils itching that night as he opened his eyes and was promptly met with darkness, the sheer unexpectedness of it putting a quick end to his semi-sleep. Eddie lay across from him, still asleep, his small chest rising and falling softly, his breathing faintly brushing over Richie’s sensitive skin, and his heel pressing against Richie’s crotch. Instinctively, Richie ground himself against it – once, just to ease the overwhelmingness of sensations. There were too many stimuli, too much Eddie; Richie felt like someone was strangling him, slowly and with a shoelace, sucking all the air out of him.

And just like his little dick, the shame arose instantly. There he was, all gangly limbs and hormones, abusing Eddie in his sleep, through with the chance of ever seeing a post-mortem utopia. They sure had no capacities for sick and disgusting boys like him above the clouds, boys who imagined kissing other boys’ lips, _Eddie’s_ lips, and touching his soft skin and being touched in return. Inexperienced fingers ghosting over body parts and exploring what felt good and right and safe.

Richie’s vision remained blurry thanks to Eddie kicking off his glasses earlier, and all the trapped lust made his hearing go dull, only faintly sensing the soft taps of raindrops against the wooden panels, somehow in tune with the song. Richie suddenly felt very dejected and alone in this world, body tensed and shivering, dick remaining painfully erect. He tried his hardest to push the feeling of wanting to be held close to the ground, kicking it in the stomach just like Bowers and his gang did to him one time at the Arcade. And if it hadn’t been clear all along, it definitely was now:

Richie was in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, and bound to never be in love with somebody else again.

_Though we must part;_

_There's no reason to cry_

Summer neared its end again in 1991 and Sonia had finally decided that she and Eddie would be better off living life elsewhere, as in _New York-elsewhere_. Eddie had waited until the very last minute to tell the Losers. On the one hand, it was to avoid drama. Unlike Richie, Eddie wasn’t one for the big gig as much as he wasn’t one for tearful goodbye’s, not because he was deeply apathic, but he was, in fact, too much of the opposite. Too sensitive, to obsessive in his nature. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in sad thoughts for too long, because then he wouldn’t get rid of it anymore, just like he couldn’t rid himself of his inhaler or his mummy’s beliefs.

Eddie had told Richie last, about three weeks ago. Richie had feigned his _funny man_ , which Eddie had secretly taken to heart, questioning if Richie really didn’t care, and why _he_ even cared whether or not Richie did. They had managed to sort of avoid the topic of Eddie leaving all together until the unofficial “Goodbye Eddie”-Party – courtesy of Ben, the huge sap.

It was a warm night in August and the Losers had assembled near the clubhouse, crouched down on a dirty blanket stolen from someone’s garage, munching on raw marshmallow’s, talking about their dreams and hopes for the future.

“If I ever make it outta Derry, I wanna study something deep, like literature or philosophy,” Mike stated with a faithful grin on his face, looking up to the stars.

“Well, I believe you can achieve about anything, love.” – Beverly encouraged him after blowing out the smoke of the shared blunt and laying down on her back – “I mean, we just killed a fucking clown. We can do whatever the hell we want now.” The group agreed, chuckling in unison.

“Thanks, Bev.” Mike grinned sheepishly and for a few moments, there was nothing but silence. Which became conspicuous pretty quickly.

“Guys, where’s Ruh-Richie?” Bill spoke up.

“Didn’t he say something about going back to the clubhouse real quick?” Mike looked around for confirmation.

“Yeah he did, to fix us another one.” Beverly informed sighing, perching herself up on her elbows. “Hey Rich, hurry up!” she yelled towards the hatch of the clubhouse, giggling, before letting her back fall on the blanket again.

“I’ll go look.” Eddie suddenly blurted out as if looking for Richie was first-come-first-serve, earning certain looks from the others.

“Alright, calm down, Loverboy,” Beverly spoke the group’s collective thought out loud, before taking another pull.

“’m not his Loverboy.” Eddie spat back defensively, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he no less than bolted up, dusted himself down and climbed down the ladder.

“Whatever you say, Loverboy.” Beverly mumbled after him with a pleased grin.

And she had been right. Richie was right there in the hammock, running his tongue along the thin rolling paper smoothly and Eddie’s mind went blank. All the mental preparation to avoid rosy cheeks or pop surprise boners, swiftly swept away under his feet, and just as he was about to _abort mission_ and tell the other’s that Richie’d been mysteriously swallowed up by the ground-

“Spaghetti-man!”

_Dammit._

“Came to admit how much you’ll miss this handsome face?” Richie beamed, pointing at his own visage for unneeded clarification; grimacing, and Eddie silently cursed him for being too damn adorable. “I’m sure your mom will.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, dickwad, the others sent me.” Eddie lied. “Also, don’t call me that.”

“No can do, Edster, not as long as it gets to ya,” Richie winked at him and put the bud aside.

“Just as I thought the names couldn’t get any more ridiculous.”

“You tempt me, Eddie Weddie. Admit it, you love the nicknames. Runs in the family I guess.”

“Beep, beep, asshole.” Eddie swatted him on the arm lightly.

“Aye, come on, Eduardo, don’t be so knackered, ‘tis all laughs and bants around here,” Richie egged him on further, that stupid grin seemingly impossible to wipe off his face.

“Stop mixing the stupid British guy with whoever else this is supposed to be while I’m-“

“Uhm, Al Pacino?” – Richie couldn’t help but abruptly interrupt – “The godfather part uno, dos, tres? Jesus, Eds, you’ve been living under a rock this past year? The guy’s a legend.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it. Your voice acting is just terrible and besides, that literally makes no fucking sense, like why would you even do a British Al Pacino? You do know that he’s not- Richie, what are you doing!? Let go of my fucking arm, numbnuts!”

“But it’s our last noche, Eds, come on. Let a guy show some affection,” He pouted obnoxiously. – “Richie, I swear to god if you don’t let go of me right fucking-” – “Shh, no need to be jealous, there’s plenty of love for _all_ the Kaspbraks down here.”– “Fuck you, dickwad! If you love me so much then why have you been acting all weird for the past three weeks, huh!?”

The statement was out long before Eddie could think it through, phrased in all the wrong ways, hanging in the air so thickly that it threatened to strangle both of them. And for the first time in – _ever_ , really, Richie was rendered speechless.

Well, _shit_. Eddie felt caught between bursting into tears and having his first real asthma attack, but before his body could decide on what to attempt first, Richie spoke again.

“I- , _what_?”

He sat up in the hammock, only now letting go of Eddie’s wrist.

“What?” Eddie no less than squealed, praying ridiculous hopes of Richie just moving onto another topic to some entity neither of them believed in.

“Eddie-“ – “Forget it, just forget I ever said something.” Eddie interrupted panicky, almost stumbling over his own words. His nails were digging through his palms and his gaze was stapled to the ground, his limbs frozen on the spot, like a frightened animal playing dead, hoping its predator would fuck off eventually. But Richie didn’t fuck off, he never fucked off. And then, Eddie turned on his heel and started chasing the ladder.

_Just get out of here, do not look back, you’ll make yourself a new name in New York. Far away. In a band – the, uh, flute maybe? No, stupid idea. There are too many germs on the-_

“No, Eddie, wait!” Richie started making hectic movements, only entangling himself in the hammock more. “Please Eds, I’m too fucking high to chase after you, Eddie, wait, please!”

Then, Eddie stopped again, he didn’t know why.

“What?” he croaked out in frustration, not daring to turn around just yet.

“Eddie I-, what do you even mean, _acting weird_? I mean, that’s just me all the time,” he chuckled weakly but seeing that Eddie didn’t reciprocate, he let it die into clearing his throat. 

“You know that, Eds.”

Richie’s voice had changed to something soft and small and – as much as Eddie wanted to blame it on the weed – something apologetic as well. His shoulders finally relaxed a bit as he turned around, facing Richie again.

“I don’t know, dude, it’s just. You’ve been avoiding me like the pest for the last weeks,”

“Hah, like the pest. Good one, Eds. Get it, ‘cause you’re a huge germaphobe and all?”

“Jesus, can you fucking shut up for a second? This is exactly why I didn’t wanna tell you at all!” Yet another confession not coming out the way he’d meant it to.

“Well, maybe it would’ve been better that way.” Richie finally spoke after a few seconds, gulping down the lump in his throat.

“And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Eddie’s almost shrieked, throwing arms in the air, brows drawn together in frustration. _Well,_ Richie pep-talked himself as he cleared his throat of nothing _, it’s now or never, Rich._

He closed up on Eddie faster than being high as the clouds should allow him to, and before anyone was able to take another breath, Richie’s sweaty fingers were hidden in Eddie’s soft hair, ungracefully crashing their lips together, the inexperience relentlessly betraying his efforts.

None of them moved much so they just stayed like this and it felt safe, jumping into this metaphorical cold pool together, realizing they sort of knew how to swim all along.

Richie’s scrawny body was still shaking and Eddie was standing on pudding knees when they parted after what had seemed like all eternity and a nanosecond alike. Still mesmerized by the unfamiliar tingles and butterflies, they signed with their looks an unspoken pact of keeping this moment a secret for now, and perhaps forever.

“Fuck, Eds.” Richie scoffed, taking a step back and re-gaining his posture. The magnum opus that was Edward Kaspbrak right in front of him, and oh, what Richie would have given to have better vision.

“Think about all the time we could’ve spent making out if I hadn’t been such a coward.”

Eddie scoffed. _Yeah Rich, I would’ve liked that_ , he wanted to say.

“In your dreams, dickwad,” came out instead. “All the stuff you smoke tastes like shit.”

Perhaps it would have been better if Eddie had just disappeared without ever giving anyone a warning. It probably wouldn’t have stung as much as it did now when Richie realized that their time together was finite. Somewhere in the back, the song was still playing, trying its very best to make the finality of the situation a tad less cruel when Eddie turned around one last time.

“Don’t take too long, asshole.” he said with a grin and climbed up the ladder, leaving all the questions buzzing in Richie’s head trapped for later worry. 

_Just say so long;_

_Because lovers never say goodbye_

Richie wouldn’t see Eddie again for the next 27 years.

They had exchanged a few letters at first, but after a while they had gotten less frequent, until they had stopped eventually. Richie would still go on and spend all of his pocket money on stamps and paper and envelopes for another few months, riding his bike to the nearest postbox even under the lousiest weather conditions because it felt like the right thing to do when you’re young and feeling funny and masturbating more than usual. But life had gone on, and suddenly, they were nearing their 30s in different states, with no memory of Derry, the clown, or one another.

Richie’s life had turned out much more stable than he, or anyone for that matter, had expected of him. He left Derry at 18 and started attending Open Mic’s at 21, most times out of a drunk dare, and even though most of the material was stolen, it somehow got him discovered. Life only went uphill after: Richie started scribbling down more of his own jokes, climbed the career ladder, bought all the things his younger self had lusted after, and threw all of it away again when he realized that capitalism didn’t in fact favor his happiness.

At 23, he eventually came to terms with himself about being bi, possibly gay. Even though his childhood was littered with evidence, it only really dawned on him one drunken night, locked in a toilet cabin at his local bar, muffling his moans with his lower arm as he was coming down the throat of one of his male standup colleagues. Richie’s eyes were squint shut as he fisted the poor man’s thatch violently, hips twitching forward. When he let go and buckled his jeans back up, he realized that he’s never come that hard with a woman.

The occasional getting his dick sucked by men became more frequent, until it became exclusive. And still, these encounters all seemed to be missing _something_ , yet Richie could never pinpoint the cause of his longing. One night, he moaned out a stranger’s name, Eddie’s name, but didn’t think much of it. The man he was with that night, understandably, threw a memorable fit.

Richie never came out publicly.

_I love you my darling;_

_more than life itself_

Richie leant back in the bathtub, letting the cold water blanket goosebump-ridden skin and his hard nipples. The song continued and so did the visions, playing in front of him on the big screen, like a fata morgana drive-in cinema.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this, I'll probably never finish this thing.


End file.
